Fire in Her Eyes
by Caela Illu
Summary: Why Draco wants her. And why he can't have her.


Fire.

I saw fire in her eyes. Fire from the very depths of her injured yet valiantly defending heart. She looked so angry, so passionate about being mad at me, and I absurdly wondered if she could love me as much as she hated me.

She reminded me of a large, nlack marble fireplace whenever more logs would be thrown into them. The flames would reach high, the wood would disintegrate, and I would be assured that I would be warm for little longer.

To think that all I had to do was look at her and say something rude, she would be on her heels, all her attention focused on me. I had simply seen her walking along the same corridor as I was, and I could not resist the urge to initiate another one of our woefully unueventful bickering sessions.

"Get out of my way, you filthy mudblood." I spat at her, in the most cruel, offensive way I could speak. I used to enjoy insulting her, degrading her, discriminating her, ever since I met her in first year. But ever since she punched me back in third year, mere verbal battle wasn't enough. I wished she'd slap me or kick me, initiate physical contact.

"Sod off, Malfoy. You don't own this hallway. Go be a git somehwere else." She spat back, and I could see her normally soft, amber eyes light up in righteous indignation. It only takes a little to get her really mad, and after five years of rudeness, I find it effortless.

I wondered if hating me was just as effortless for her. If I remember correctly, she never initiated any of these episodes between me and her. I always had to make the first move, I always had to go out of my way to hurt her, to make her notice me, to call her something offensive so she would whirl around, look at me for a moment and say something to me. Never mind that her eyes would be filled with hatred, sometimes unshed tears, or that she would have to defend herself.

In second year, when I had called her a mudblood, a dirty-blooded person, I thought I could make her do something more than just say something clever. But she didn't understand that I had just called her one of the most offensive things in the wizarding world, and it had to be that dumb ox Weasely who hexed me. Or at least tried to. If it had been her, I would not have minded even if I turned into a slug, as long as she would be made to apologize for it, as long as she would talk to me.

"I'll be whatever I want wherever I bloody please, Granger." I sneered. I saw those flaming amber pools of yours grow hotter, and I knew you had a clever retort already. I was half-delighted you were so quick to my game, so easy to goad into talking to me, and half-disappointed that you weren't going to punch me as you had done three years ago. I must remember how I ever got you to that so I can do it again.

"Fine, Malfoy. Go be Filch's gay lover down in his office. I have more important things to do than associate with you." She said, and I saw triumph in her eyes, and the beginnings of a satisfied, evil smile.

She shouldn't smile like that. I don't like it when she's like me. I don't like it when she lapses into a state where she meets me word for word, when she can't go above me and amaze me again with how pure, innocent, intelligent and radiant she is. She should be mad, righteously, indignantly, justifiably mad. She should be defending herself, she should be beyond name-calling and rudeness.

She should have slapped me for being a git. She should have slapped me for being a racist, helpless puppet to my pureblood, racist father. She should have slapped me for being raised thinking that all who weren't born into a wizarding family should be considered animals. She should have slapped me for not being stronger, for not standing up. She should have slapped me for not fighting for her, for the Crucio I had to endure every time my father found out a 'dirty, lowlife, insipid mudblood wench' beat me in the exams.

I already know I'm a git. I've known it since the time she told me in first year! Why doesn't she do something about it, damn her! Why doesn't she hit me, why doesn't she hurt me, why doesn't she throttle the life out of me?

Why doesn't she do that all that so I can pin her down, so I can touch her, so I can look like I'm defending myself when I'm just trying to hold her to me, just for a little while?

"Where are you, going, Granger?" Pansy Parkinson, one of the creatures (I refuse to call a girl who flirts with anything that moves a person) I happened to be with asked you. "To be a whore to your little friends, Potty and Weasel?" she looked at me then at Crabbe and Goyle, the two gorillas who were switched at birth with two children at St. Mungo's Hospital.

"No, Parkinson, I believe that's your job. But I don't think Harry and Ron would want something..." Pansy never stood a chance against her. The sexy body with porridge for brains should have just shut up. "...loose, used and abused."

"Why you—" I stopped Pansy from rushing forward to slap her, if anyone is going to get slapped, it should be me and it should be Hermione who'll be doing the slapping.

I brushed my slicked-back blonde hair to keep the bangs from falling into my grey eyes. "Heel, Pansy. You can't hit Granger for telling the truth."

I heard Crabbe and Goyle snicker in a couple of animalistic grunts behind me, and I smiled evilly at Hermione, sneering, I was ready to hurl another insult. I realized when I saw her walking down the hall to me that she was alone and I was not, and I would not be able to talk with her as much as I liked.

But I saw her simply roll her eyes, shake her head and move to walk past me. Was our little encounter over so soon? I usually managed to get close enough to her to breathe in her face while I threatened her to keep out of my way. I didn't want it to end. I sometimes dreamt that she and I would be locked in a room together, insulting each other as long as we could until she would hit me or I would make her cry.

Then I would hold her and tell her everthing. I would tell her I onl wanted to gain her attention. That I just wanted her to touch me, like she had done in third year near the Forbidden Forest, with her fist. I would tell her she could touch me like that again, as many times as she wished. I would tell her I liked it, I liked it when she touched me, when she hurt me, when she proved me wrong, when she showed me that she would always be ebtter than me because she is nothing like me.

She brushed past me, and I almost couldn't say anything in parting, so sad I was that I would have to wait another day before I could talk to her and be near her again. But just as her shoulder grazed mine, I almost sighed and forgot I said, "By the way, I heard Weasely scavenged enough money to buy second-hand a broomstick. Tell him I'd gladly buy him a new one, if he wipes his face on my shoe."

Before I could contemplate why I had said that and why I suddenly wanted to kill Weasely for being so close to you that I could use him to insult you, you had whirled around and raised your hand to slap me.

I braced myself for the sting of your hand on my cheek, keen to feel that momentary contact. I smiled at you, though I don't remember if it was an evil smile or a genuine one.

But the pain never came, and I belatedly realized that Crabbe had caught your arm and had twisted it painfully behind your back.You were seething, you were incredibly and beautifully angry, you were getting hurt.

"Let go of her, ou bloody prat." I blurted without thinking, and the fool pushed you away, throwing you against the wall, where I heard the dull thud of your shoulder as it hit stone. I heard a soft whimper escape your lips and saw one of your hands immediately come up to hold your injured shoulder, a fresh curtain of tears rising to your eyes.

That push could not have hurt you. Not if...

Not if that shoulder had been hurt before.

I wanted to beat the jerk into a bloody pulp. Nobody hurts Hermione.

Excpet me.

"Lets, go, Draco. That teaches her for trying to slap you. Know-it-all." Pansy said as she tried to lead me away, I didn't move, I just stood watching Hermione bite back tears, slowly try to get back on steady feet and walk as fast as she could away from me, holding the pained shoulder gently.

It was then I remembered what I said that earned me a punch. I had insulted the gamekeeper, Hagrid, and said that the giant deserved to go to jail for being an oaf.

I realized you only lost your cool when I affronted your friends, the people you care about. The people who surround you, who see you everyday. The people who don't have to insult you, to hurt you just so you would pay attention to them.

The people you love.

You would hit me wihtout thinking, without question, even if I had two bodyguards twice your size with me.

I saw you limp your way down the hall and disappear down the corner, but not before I see you look back at me for a moment and turn away. I had never seen you so hurt. I though I heard you sob.

I broke away from Pansy and ran to her as fast as I could, turning the corner but not finding her anywhere. It was a long hallway and there were no doors to any rooms along this one. Even if she ran, I would still be able to see her.

I needed to find her. I needed to see her. I had no idea what I would do when I did see her, but what I wanted, what I absolutely needed at that very moment was to see her.

To my surprise, when I looked to my right, I saw a door. I was positive that there had never been a door there before, but this was a wizarding school. It was known that rooms appear and disappear magically.

I immediately opened the door and there I found her seated on a soft couch of red leather, facing away from me, in front of a roaring fireplace. It looked like the Gryffindor Common Room, as the walls were hung with the emblem of Godric Gryffindor. But the Gryffindor Common Room was not along this hall.

She was bent over the table, full of books, her right arm lay limp beside her and I heard soft sobbing.

I approached slowly, but I was afraid. Even if this was what I needed moments ago, I was ready to turn tail and never reveal myself to her.

I was just behind her, if she lay her head on the couch's backrest, she could see me. "Does it hurt?" I asked her.

She sprang up, I heard a soft whimper as she was forced to move her shoulder.

"Malfoy! What are you doing here? How did you know about this room?" she was frantic, there was no fire in her eyes anymore. She was as afraid as I was, but she was determined not to show it.

"Does it hurt?" I asked again, in a softer tone, ad she let her guard down a bit.

"What? My shoulder?" I saw her rub it gently. She looked quizzically at me, then shook her head and turned away. "Leave me alone, Malfoy. Go away. I hate you."

I came up to stand behind her, and tentatively reached out to touch her shoulder.

She gasped, turned around and I saw that she had pointed her wand at me. "Touch me and I'll hex you." She threatened, her voice shaking, her eyes suddenly cold and unafraid.

"I'm sorry." I said. I wasn't thinking anymore at this point.

Her expression changed, but I did not know to what. She looked warily at me and she lowered her wand a bit. "What did you say?"

"I—" it was hard to say it again. "I'm sorry."

"What are you playing this time, Malfoy?" she sighed and set ther wand down. She turned away from me. "You win. I'm a mudblood. There, you happy? Go away now. I'm not in the mood for any more games."

I felt something clench in my chest and my stomach drop sickeningly.

"I said I'm sorry."

"I heard you!" she bent over, and I heard a sob choked back. "Go away!"

"I said, I'm sorry!" I grit out, angrily, but not at her. She turned around to face me and I saw fear in her eyes again. She backed away slowly and with each step she took, I felt heavier. She was crying, tears flowing silently down her cheeks.

"Hermione..." I whispered as I reached out to her.

She turned away and covered her ears with her hands. Her body was shaking with silent sobs, and she slowly sank down to the floor.

I drew near and knelt behind her. What I was about to do, I knew I would never do again. Not because I did not want to, but because it had to be that way.

My arms wrapped around her waist, and I rested my cheek on top of her head.

"I'm sorry. But I want to hold you," I started, and I did not feel her resist my hold, she just seemed to sob harder. She began rocking her body forward then back slowly, and I followed her swaying. "Until you stop crying."

I felt tears on my arms.

I loved her.

"What makes you think," I heard her whisper between sobs. "That you can just touch me like this?" She turned around, and though your face was wet and your eyes were red and still spilling tears, I saw the fire I loved in them again.

I was so happy to see her eyes that way again. That I was holding her didn't matter anymore. What mattered was I saw fire.

"I hate you." She declared, defiantly, in the strongest, yet saddest voice I had ever heard.

"I know." I whisper, and before she could have stopped me, before I could have stopped myself, I hugged her, tenderly, lovingly, running my fingers through her hair. "And I don't care."

The weeks passed and everytime I saw her again, she was with her friends. I did not seek her out to insult her anymore, I couldn't. I simpl wanted to watch her from afar, and remember how she told me she hated me, how there was a magnificent fire in her eyes, and how I wiped away her tears after.

But that didn't mean I didn't insult her friends anymore.

"Hey, Weasely, looks like its your lucky day. Lick my boots and I'll give you a galleon."

"I'd rather kiss a skrewt."

"Just sod off, Malfoy." Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Annoy Me stepped between me and Weasely.

I sneered and cast a glance at you. I moved away but before you three were out of earshot, I heard one of them ask you, "He's a slimy git. But I've been wondering why he never says anything to you anymore, Mione."

I looked back when I heard you reply, meeting your brown eyes with mine, and I felt lighter.

"I don't know. Maybe he hates me that much."


End file.
